Synonymous
by Zellatron
Summary: Because if there was one word he couldn't use, it was the one beginning with Z.


I don't own _The Walking Dead_. Simples.

This is a little something I threw together in an attempt to get a story actually written down and completed. My job has me working 50+ hours a week at the moment so I don't have much time to focus on anything else, hence why this is unedited and probably bad lol. This one shot is inspired by a snippet of conversation in _Shaun of the Dead_ and basically one take on how the term Geeks may have come to be used by the _TWD_ crew in relation to zombies. The T rating is purely for language.

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><p><strong>Synonymous<strong>

...

"Let's face it, they're zo-"

"No. Don't say it."

Between them the fire crackled, a deep orange burn casting a low glow over the faces of the encircled survivors. Eyes brightened by the oscillating flames gawked at him and not for the first time Glenn wondered where this new found outspokenness had come from. He had never been like that _before_, and yet now, with his heart pounding in his chest and mouth turning dry, he couldn't stop the flood once it had begun.

Shane stared at him hardest of all, mouth ajar from where he had been interrupted. Glenn didn't shirk off his gaze and tried not to blink - unwilling to back down. He fidgeted on his camping stool and doused a stray ember with the sole of his sneaker. Nervous energy surged through his muscles and he attributed it to lack of sleep and too many close encounters in the city. Around him the group swapped glances, observing the civil stand off between the deputy and delivery boy with bemusement and mild concern. Cicadas chittered, accompanying the fire in filling the night with sound when strained courtesy kept them both from saying something they would regret.

Instead Shane rubbed at his stubbled chin and cleared his throat. "So what do you propose we call them? Because I've always been of the opinion that if it looks like a duck, waddles likes a duck and quacks like a duck, then its a damn duck. In this case, however, they're z-"

"I don't care but we're not calling them _that._"

"Why the hell not? Its true, ain't it? That's what they are."

But that was the problem. If he called them zombies then that meant everything that was happening was real. That instead of it all being a hiccup the military would fix, that the best doctors from across the world could cure, it was the end of the civilisation as they knew it. It was the apocalypse, it was all of George A. Romero's films he had ever been terrified by lumped into one big, deadly mess. If they were zombies then everyone he knew or loved was dead, even his parents; and if it really was the United States of Zombieland, then it wouldn't be long until their motley band of survivors started dying off one by one. Fuel would run out, food would run out, ammunition would run out; people would turn on each other until eventually the dead weren't the ones to worry about any more.

"Can't we just...call them something else? Something less..." He couldn't think of anything more to say. Glenn's head dipped, his shoulders drooping with fatigue.

"I think Glenn might be right," Lori spoke up, gently squeezing his shoulder as she sat down next to him; offering support to what he was beginning to realise must have seemed a fruitcake notion to everyone else. "I don't like the idea of calling them that, not when they were people once. They're not movie monsters, and I don't want the kids being even more scared than they already are. Phony Hollywood legends will only make things worse."

Her reasoning inspired agreement in others, mostly mothers, and Glenn felt himself release a breath he hadn't known he was holding. But that still left that matter of what they should be called instead. As it was Glenn couldn't think of anything else, very few appropriate words came to mind. The thoughtful hush that befell the survivors clustered around the squat camp fire was short, filled with restless movement and the shared knowledge that Shane was right. Amy leant her head on Andrea's shoulder, chewing on her bottom lip as she watched Glenn tug at and resettle his well-worn baseball cap; fingers wrapped around the orange peak long after it was fixed in place.

"How about _Ghouls_?" A voice unfamiliar to Glenn called out.

"Or _The Undead_, seein' as that's what they are."

"_Nightwalkers!"_

"They don't just come out at night, moron."

"Eliza, don't call your brother a moron. Apologise now."

Eliza pouted and muttered an insincere apology into the crook of her elbow. Louis stuck his tongue out at her in response.

"I've got one," T-Dog announced, "_Brain Biters."_

"Well if you want to go down that route you might as well call them _Shuffling Horrors _or _The Restless Dead,_" Shane scoffed.

"Those are stupid names."

"Exactly."

There was a momentary lull.

"Some of the news reporters were calling them _Walkers,_" Amy offered after a beat.

"That could work," Andrea agreed.

Dale nodded. "Sounds good to me. I certainly can't think of anything more fitting."

Murmurs of assent echoed throughout the party that was ever fluctuating in size.

Daryl Dixon was stood on the roof of the RV staring out across the landscape, clearly attentive to the conversation going on below but listening above the murmured chatter for the unnatural moans of the dead and the warning signs of bodies lurching through the undergrowth. The fire wasn't high enough to illuminate the campsite. The tents were ghoulish stone alters in the darkness and the man-made lake a gaping maw surrounded by jagged rock teeth. Glenn spared regular short glances towards the saturnine younger Dixon, who prowled the length of the roof like a caged tiger and made him as nervous as the dead did.

"All of them sound stupid to me," He muttered.

The dull scrape of dragging feet on leaflitter caught in his ears, just as it did in everyone else's, and Glenn stood up as quickly as Shane. Guns were raised and panicked whispers were hushed as the vulnerable members of the group, the women and children, were herded behind the men. They all strained to see, to pick out the source and isolate it from their number.

"Everyone stay quiet," Shane ordered. Glenn loitered on the edge of the group, wishing he hadn't left his aluminium bat in his tent.

It took a moment for him to catch sight of it, camouflaged as it was against a background blurred and distorted by the darkness and his overactive imagination. The silhouette swayed as it trudged along, moving away from the camp to the treeline; head bobbing and feet tripping - aware yet unaware of the world surrounding it. Garbled moans echoed across the camp to them and Glenn was vaguely conscious of the terrified, muffled sobs of Sophia Peletier. They all stood, electrified, in the light of the fire. Waiting. Shane let go of a deep breath and crept forward, the butt of his rifle nestled against his shoulder. In his mind he had no other choice but to close the distance, he'd miss the shot if he stayed where he was.

"Shane, be careful!" Lori hissed, lurching forward a step. A small hand curled around her wrist, holding her back from moving any further. She looked down to find Carl staring up at her in fright, clinging to her arm and shirt. She pulled her son tightly against her, guilt ebbing at her lack of thought. Shane could take care of himself, Carl couldn't. "Don't worry, baby. Everything's going to be okay."

T-Dog followed Shane at a tentative pace, a box-end wrench held in a raised hand. He looked over his shoulder at Glenn and Ed, the latter stepping backward to join his wife and daughter whilst young Glenn - face creased with anxious reluctance - sidled forward, still unarmed.

"Can you see it? I've lost it," Shane whispered.

It was somewhere in their little shanty town, lost amidst the numerous tents and vehicles sat along the woodland boundary. Glenn could see nothing, and neither it seemed could T-Dog.

"Shit, where is it? Do you have a flashlight?" He asked Glenn.

"Dale has one, I think. In the RV. Aren't the Macklins' in their tent?"

"Aw shit, you don't think... Shane?"

"We woulda heard somethin' if they were in trouble."

"Sure," Glenn wasn't convinced.

"Look! There it is!"

"I see it." Shane lined up his shot again.

A head jerked into view twenty yards before them, the attached body wobbling on unsteady legs as it stumbled and overbalanced. There was an elaborate crash as the figure fell into a stock pile of empty water and gas cans, and a whoop of hysterical laughter told them all they needed to know.

"Hold up! It's just Merle," Daryl called out, lowering his rifle. He skidded down the RV's ladder and jogged to stand in the path of Shane's rifle, a beseeching hand held out to the Officer when Shane held his aim. "Don't shoot."

It took Shane a long minute to finally lower the weapon, and he did it slowly, almost hesitantly. His body was taut with adrenalin induced tension, the glimmer of fear in his dark eyes replaced with anger.

_"Jesus!" _Shane threw the rifle to the ground and kicked at the flimsy wall of a tent in his frustration. He paced in a tight circle, glancing at the others but fixing Daryl with a hostile glare. His self control was unravelling. "Goddamnit, what the hell is he up to?"

His tone of voice and aggressive stance put Daryl on the defensive. The redneck seemed to grow half a foot in the firelight, wired up and ready to secure his brother's failing honour. His lip curled up in an ugly sneer, the rifle he held was propped against a cooler and he advanced on Shane, teeth bared and a hand hovering over his hunting knife.

"Usin' the john, I'd say. You gotta a problem with that, Deputy?"

"I do if he gets us killed!"

They were nose to nose, both ready to throw the first punch.

"Shane don't," Lori begged, stepping in between the two men; resting a hand on Shane's chest, pushing him gently away from Daryl.

"Yeah, let the man piss in peace," Daryl crowed over her head.

Shane's jaw clenched, as did his fists, and a panicked Carl tried to run to his mother, only to be held back by Jacqui before he could get to her.

"Stay here, sweetie. Let your mom deal with them."

"But-"

"How about you put that waste of space brother of yours on a leash, then we'll all get some peace!"

Glenn once again watched on from the sidelines, unsure of what he should or could do. T-Dog lingered close by and Dale looked ready to step in at any moment and diffuse the situation with his trademark diplomacy. Whether it would work or not Glenn didn't know. Shane and Daryl looked too het up to be calmed by supplicating words and a well-meaning manner. This was what he had feared all along, only it had come to life a whole lot sooner than he had anticipated. One of them would end up injured if not dead, Shane and Daryl weren't the sort to stop before blood had been drawn. The anger and fear and exhaustion and grief had been building up for so long it was inevitable that it would find a way out eventually; and Glenn figured that this was as good a time as any. For them at least.

Merle clambered to his feet behind them, still laughing, the barks and rasps interrupted by incoherent speech encouraged by whatever it was he thought he was seeing. He was high, nothing unusual there, and lost to a limbo halfway between their forsaken reality and a dreamworld that entertained him greatly. Merle continued to stagger around, grinning and waving his arms as he turned back to face the way he had been heading - shaking himself as he did so - and continued on his path. It was no wonder they had confused him for a... for one of _them._ When Merle was high, but not when he was drunk, he moved and sounded just like one of them, only perhaps a whole lot more harmless as long as he didn't have a gun within his reach. Glenn knew that Merle had a stash of cocaine hidden away, had even seen him take it out of his vest pocket and roll it between his fingers when he thought no one was around. How long that stash would last, he didn't know, and he couldn't help but wonder what would happen when it ran out...

"Geeks," Glenn blurted out.

Everybody turned to him, including Shane and Daryl; the conflict between them momentarily postponed. All eyes were on him and he felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment. Glenn pulled his cap from his head and squished it in his hands, wringing it one way and then the other. They were waiting for an explanation behind his absurd interruption, so he struggled to put his thoughts into words.

"We should call them Geeks. You know, zombie-like, brain dead but still walking, but not act- oh, forget it."

"Geeks?" T-Dog questioned, eyebrows raised, giving in to his amusement with a rumble of laughter.

"Geeks?" Shane echoed, wiping at the sweat on his top lip as he considered what Glenn had proposed.

Daryl, understanding what Glenn meant and what it was he was alluding to, glared at him before stalking off in the same direction as Merle. He felt a pang of regret at the redneck's reaction, moreso in wariness of the consequences in store for him than anything else. Daryl Dixon was as unpredictable and hotheaded as his older brother, and Glenn couldn't see how that could bode well for him. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, maybe he should have just let them duke it out, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time and the terminology still seemed like an appropriate choice for them to use.

Glenn grimaced and looked down at his feet.

"Uh, yeah. Why not?"

Shane turned to Lori, who after a moment shrugged and replied;

"Well I like it."

"It makes sense to me," Morales added.

Dale and Andrea nodded. Amy offered a smile as well as a nod, and nobody made a complaint on the matter.

"Okay," Shane sighed, looking around the group one last time; defeated by Glenn's persistence. His almost fight with Daryl stood all but forgotten.

"Geeks it is, then."

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><p>[<em>Geek<em> is a term sometimes associated with drug addicts, usually crack addicts, and their behaviour when coming down off a high/going through withdrawals - which in some cases is not unlike that of a zombie.]

Thank you for reading :)


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